Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (11 page)

Not only was he sizzling at calf roping but at bulldogging too, when exceeding at two events was nearly impossible for a so-called
mature
rider. Most riders were so young they even failed at shaving. Yet here he was, late-thirties, his balance off, his bones aching, joints on fire, fingers and wrists sprained and strained but on a winning streak that was
bigger than Dallas
with his dog right there at his side. In fact, riding shotgun!

His buddies noticed both his steady winning streak and his dog. They saw him pull up at the Majestic 12 Theater, or the Local Harvest grocery store, or the gas station, Skidboot's muzzle practically pasted to the front window, his eyes glazed with excitement. The dog sensed a rodeo long before they got there and trembled with excitement.

They noticed Skidboot when David was saddling Hank by the trailer, and when they passed, David would tell Skidboot to fetch a stick. They'd stop to watch and see Skidboot do his "stop and start" routine. "Hold it," David would say and Skidboot would freeze. "Back up," he'd say, and the cowboys standing around were so enthralled that a few would make an involuntary backwards step, then laugh with embarrassment. To prolong the drama, David informed Skidboot, very seriously, that yes, he could have the stick but
first
, he had to run around the red truck, or turn left at the hot dog stand, or corner right by the balloons and then come back.

People murmured, then clapped and yelled. People brought so many friends that every time David pulled up, there'd be more pinched front cowboy hats, bobbing like a field of mushrooms, all talking about David and that darn dog. Brodeas Gravvett, a friend of David's, bent over one day and instructed Skidboot to give the stick to the
dumbest man there.
Skidboot, one ear cocked, eyes sparkling, carefully held the stick out to Brodeus. A surge of laughter rang out .

"Show us another!"

"More tricks."

"Hey, does he speak Spanish?"

And so forth.

Last year, Gus had asked him about the Texas State Fair, even offered him $1,000 in prize money. David wondered where the days had gone, his life had whipped around so fast with the riding, the prizes, the success, as well as the daily drilling of Skidboot. He was a different dog by now, with an intuitive sense that almost preceded the idea. David, no doubt a
dog whisperer,
wouldn't have been surprised to find that Skidboot whispered back, so neatly did their thoughts mesh.

"Barbara, I've been thinking. I didn't like the whole performance idea before, you know, that whole
cornbread
deal.
” It actually pained him to think of that particular embarrassment. She nodded, she understood.

"But we still got bills, and we still got Skidboot. I'm thinking I might go after that State Fair money."

Barbara nodded, wondering whether David could stand to share the glory with their dog. Her husband was a born champion, someone who climbed after wins the way spiders walked their own webs. It was born in him, and now, he'd be giving part of it away. She shrugged. They both knew that times were changing, that fate was having its way with their lives.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Finding the Phone

David lay flat on the grass. Skidboot lay flat on the grass, or as flat as his tightly wound self allowed him. They stared at each other, face to face. No reason, actually. Except David was trying to fathom how far he could trust Skidboot. The Bonham, Texas, rodeo producers had called him up yesterday, something that, in the old days, would have made him stagger with excitement. Only now, they weren't calling about his calf roping. They were calling about his dog.

The Bonham rodeo was a once-a-year family rodeo held on a private ranch. He'd tried to get entry there a couple of times, but the owner, Haynes Cochran, a locally recognized tightwad, had hemmed and hawed, allowing that David might strut his dog across the track a few times, but he'd really have to wait and see. Meanwhile, David played Skidboot at a Senior Rodeo, a quiet little affair consisting of guys over 40. They'd clapped politely, grew quiet and waited to be entertained.

In the crowd, sat Hayes from the Bohnam rodeo, whose ears rang with the growing applause, and who decided that the dog was amazing after all, and who promptly called David back.

Mr, Hartwig, we've heard good things about this here Skidboot. But we wonder, now, is he ring-worthy? I mean, he's only been out once or twice. Are you confident he's got the grit for the Big Time?

David's response brimmed with so many business words, "responsible" and "arena tried" and "well-trained" that he felt like a Marketing Director of some dot com as he turned his dog into a high tech package. Yet David knew he wasn't any of these things. But he wouldn't share that with the Bonham folks.

David stared at Skidboot, looking deep into indigo pools that snapped with mischief, inquiry, sympathy, challenge and well, friendship. While they held this fixed position, eye to eye, man and beast, he tried to understand how far he could push back against such an animal.

Could he trust Skidboot? A really smart animal, like a really smart person, had imagination, which led to a minefield of extemporization. Why, once Skidboot had followed the "patting" instructions right up to the end, then swiped, hard, like spanking. Once he'd nearly played the piano. Another time, he'd read the traffic light without prompting. Once he'd nearly driven off in the truck. If they were going to make themselves into a show, David needed the confidence to trust Skidboot as much as Hank, his trusted horse. He must be practiced, dependable, yet not too independent, an extension of David himself.

Plus, David knew the truth about his Heeler. Skidboot was not obsessed with trying to
obey
but to prove to David that
David could not trick him!”
The dog loved a challenge. If he could, he would have played chess. But unable to grasp a board or a chess piece, this dog's "game" was just as dire, and he saw David as his worthy opponent. While David tried to check the dog, Skidboot was bent on capture, right up until they changed roles again, one playing trickster with the other.

How could David expect this dog to stay cool when he himself was as edgy as a snake on a razor?

When the phone rang, he nearly whooped to hear, "Mr. Hartwig, you have your price." They would perform at the Bonham rodeo July, 1994—a date that marked the division between amateur and professional. They continued to be on their way.

Incredibly, the phone buzzed the next second and yet
another
rodeo was calling. The Blueridge Rodeo over in Collin County, a small gig, but one willing to take a chance on David. Wes Ward, the genial owner, had heard about them, offered them carte blanche, starting right away. Although a small venue, practice there would be invaluable. It would give him a chance to work Skidboot, to rehearse for the bigger ones to come.

Bonham. Blueridge. Why, that's just the B's,
David joked to Barbara, who rolled her eyes and made a protective motion toward Skidboot.

"You just take care of my dog, David," she instructed. Crestfallen, he looked at her. Couldn't she see that the dog was on its way to taking care of them? This was Big Time, and he wanted everyone on board for the fun. Did she think he wasn't treating Skidboot right?

"Barbara, let's do some tricks here in the house." He figured that they could all pitch in, get involved, enjoy the relationship and develop a routine that he could use outside the arena, maybe at the countless churches and schools that were also calling.

The phone shrilled again, and Barbara answered. But David noticed how Skidboot's eyes followed the sound to its source. His ears arched forward like twin radar beacons, twisting toward the moving device.

Any good trainer can pick up cues from the animal, and this one nearly announced itself.

"Russell, you distract him." Russell pitched in, rampaging around the floor with Skidboot while David hid the phone under a pile of cushions.

"Barbara, you call the house number with your mobile." An instant later, the phone rang.

Without any rehearsal, David said, "go find the phone."

Skidboot swiveled in place, nose like an arrow. This, without rehearsal! He somehow got the command, understood "phone" at the end of the familiar "go get," and trotted over to the pillows, rummaged through and found the landline. He pawed it once as in—
there it is folks, anything else?
—and turned for approval. For a Blue Heeler, bred to run herds into the horizon, to nip at hooves, direct a phalanx of outsized cattle toward a pinpoint destination, the mere unearthing of a shrilling piece of plastic probably seemed…elementary.

"That's fan-tas-tic!" Skidboot, eyes narrowed, watched everyone cavort around, excited, trying to come up with another task. If only they understood the wild strain that ran through him, the echoes of open plains, vast canyons, the daily need to eat or be eaten, so primal that no humans, at least not these humans, could ever understand. Skidboot himself didn't understand, because this instinct slipped into his cortex from the primal brain, and lodged there, forcing him to find prey,
no matter how ridiculous
.

To Skidboot's delight, they decided on another piece of
prey
, the tiny black-hand device that turned the talking box on and off, called, appropriately, The Remote! He obligingly left the room while they "hid" it. Unlike the wild veldt of Australia, where every burrow or hole must be explored, where a red rock crevice might house a family of dusky hopping mice or a burrowing Betong, where sand hills sheltered long-tailed Dunnarts and spotted Chudditch, the Hartwig living room had only about three possible hiding places. He sighed.

David slipped the remote under the sofa cushion, then Russell sat down on the sofa.

"Skidboot!" David commanded. "I want to watch television." A complex thought using words that he didn't think would register, without rehearsal, but then, he was not thinking in the same primal way. Skidboot calmly, methodically, began to eliminate possibilities. You could almost see him keeping a list,
not here, not under the sofa, not under the cushion, not behind the ficus.
Then he stuffed his sharp nose under a pile of ironed shirts and delicately prized it out.

David was so startled he nearly spilled his coffee. The only thing he could think now was if such quick discovery looked too practiced. How could he get Skidboot to nose around in the wrong places, or maybe, drag it out a little? No one would believe that he could just trot directly, so quickly, over to the device.

"Good dog!" They all jumped up and down, praising Skidboot, excited. Russell carried on as if the dog had made a touchdown. David hushed them, added a new instruction.

"Skidboot, sir, come here. I want to watch TV, please bring me the remote."

Skidboot mouthed the piece and trotted over to David, happy to do this because both the primal brain and the thinking cortex of the dog understood that there was one being here with more wisdom, strength and ability to dominate than any other wolf, dingo or dog, and that was man. Skidboot had learned this quickly, as had his forbearers.

They looked at each other proudly.
This was incredible.

Unfortunately, these tricks, good as they were, wouldn't work in a rodeo arena. These were parlor tricks, and they could play indoors at any of the schools, churches or banquets that kept calling. So, David divided Skidboot's talents into two categories: home and arena. His eyes roved around the tiny living room of the Hartwig ranch, saw the shaded mini-lamp, the round tufted area rug, the study alcove where they paid their bills and lighted on the bedroom. Why, any self-respecting dog should learn the basics.

A simple idea, but why not? Skidboot should put himself to bed, and over time, Skidboot's Bed Time captured the hearts of school kids everywhere. When David—just like a father!—towered over his dog and sternly said, "Skidboot, it's time for bed," children understood this finality, and even though they probably wished that Skidboot would rebel, bark out his objections, "no! no!" the way
they
wanted to, Skidboot would grab a pillow and carry it to the middle of the stage. Then, he laid the pillow down and slowly, lowered his head onto it. Hindquarters settled down last, and quite gently, very gradually, he nestled himself into the pillow.

But they weren't through. David then held out a favorite blanket, the thin, almost raggedy blue cotton one, and said, "Skidboot, cover up!"

And Skidboot, to the transfixed children, would grab the blanket in his teeth, tightening himself into a burrito. The kids exploded, laughing, clapping, but even the commotion failed to interrupt Skidboot's sleep. He only "awakened" when David told him—with a "snap" and a "Good boy—to wake up."

Barbara photographed the performances, and they soon had a pile of glossy Skidboot photos for fans. "He's the N-Sync of the dog world," Russell laughed.

"Who?" David and Barbara echoed.

And over time, the number of fans and the number of photos grew, as did the opportunities.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Texas State Fair

Skidboot's mouth fell open. He'd seen a lot in a year and a half, but nothing like this. When David called Gus back and said "yes" to the Texas State Fair, it shot them both into a venue of flashing lights, sparkling fountains and a 700-foot long reflecting pool—they'd never seen so much water. Illuminated floats rumbled by, filled with girl scouts and flowers, and overhead, clouds of balloons bobbed like birds. A drum and bugle barrage bellowed away, so loud that Skidboot whined.

"You ok?" David stroked Skidboot, noticed the quivering, but didn't give it much thought. The dog was coiled as a spring, as usual. Maybe it was the effect of seeing his first 15-foot puppet, an outsized head that bobbed and grinned down at them, then fell away as Big Tex, the 500-foot high symbol of the Texas State Fair, loomed overhead.
Big Tex,
David mused,
what a man.